


My Head Is Full Of Nightmares (and icing)

by vexbatch



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Birthdays, Brock Rumlow is an asshole, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Forced Feeding, M/M, Mostly MCU Compliant, Negative Self Talk, Night Terrors, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Self-Esteem Issues, Stony - Freeform, Trauma, Unwanted blowjob, bucky pov, eventual winterhawk, everyone lives in the tower, except that clint is a tol boi, icing flashbacks, imposter syndrome, nat is an excellent best friend, noncon, rumlow is only in flashbacks, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:54:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26000071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vexbatch/pseuds/vexbatch
Summary: Everyone is trying to make Bucky feel welcome at his new home in Avengers Tower, but unfortunately no one could account for just how much Hydra had done to him.Clint Barton Birthday Bash Bingo, Square 3: CakeKisses Bingo: Gentle Shoulder Bump
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 34
Kudos: 107
Collections: Kisses Bingo





	1. The First Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> eternal thanks to Ravenclaw2313 for beta-ing
> 
> the rest of this is in the works, just wanted to get the first chapter out. i pre-tagged for what this work will eventually entail, but not all of it will appear in this first chapter

✯⑀.⑀.⑀❖⑀.⑀.⑀✯

Bucky hated cake.

No, really, truly,  _ hated _ .

It wasn’t a problem for the longest time; who would get the Winter Soldier a cake? The answer was Brock Rumlow on one night that Bucky did his best to forget about. He usually succeeded.

But really, it was just too sweet, too large, and just…. too much.

Unfortunately, no one had actually  _ asked _ Bucky if he still liked cake and big parties after all these decades. 

The Bucky that Steve remembered had loved the dances with big bands and too many people to comfortably maneuver. He was excited for the Stark Expo, never had a problem convincing ladies to accompany them, and loved any kind of sweet he could find, provided there was enough to share. 

But that had been before HYDRA. Before the mind-wiping, before Rumlow, before so much. You could fit an eternity between those two Buckys, the one Steve remembered and the one that stood before him now, dumbstruck at the scene before them.

It was the communal level of the Tower [Location: Avengers Tower, 200 Park Av-], but everything was  _ c o v e r e d _ in balloons and crepe paper flowers, a riot of holographic decorations along the walls, completed by spangled letters dangling from the ceiling that proclaimed “HAPPY BIRTHDAY BUCKY!”

It was hideous.

Bucky stepped out of the elevator, half dragged by Steve, the same traitorous Steve that had coaxed Bucky out of his rooms to celebrate with the team. Steve who was beaming at him, an expectant look in his eye. 

Ranged around the room was the rest of the on-world team; Rhodey and Vision looked midway through a conversation against a wall, Wanda hanging back in the living room near Maria Hill, Clint, Sam and Natasha leaning against the kitchen’s bar, and Tony, front and center, arms wide in a parody of his father. The very image of a man welcoming the public into the Stark Expo.

Bucky blinked rapidly, working to dispel the image of the dead man [ _ you’re a murderer _ ] in a time long past [ _ you don’t deserve these memories _ ]. By the time he could see, remembered how to plaster a grin on, Steve’s smile was faltering, and Natasha was giving him a concerned glance. 

“Happy Birthday, Barnes,” Tony crowed, a smile held steadily in place as he tapped a place on the floor. Glittering confetti suddenly exploded from either side of Bucky, freezing him in place as he stared at the confetti cannons hidden near the ceiling.

“ _ Tony, _ ” Steve was chastising someone, but it already seemed so far away, worlds distant as Bucky was catapulted back into the past…

_ The flash of the muzzle. Thud. _

_ Someone was screaming [Eliminate witnesses]. _

_ Flash. Thud. _

_ [Mission complete. Eliminate trace evidence.] _

_ The Asset looked up, searching for any telltale glints… _

_ There. A traffic camera.  _

_ Flash. _

_ The tinkle of shattered glass rained down, but the Asset heard none of it. _

_ [Report back to headquarters.] _

_ Turning, the Asset caught a glimpse of a picture of a boy clutched in the woman’s hand. There was a moment of recognition, but…. _

_ [Report back to headquarters. Mission report is priority. Report back to headquarters. Repor-] _

_ The Asset turned, disappearing into the night. _

Bucky came to, curled up against the wall, breathing as though he’d just run thirteen miles, the background noise of Steve [Target: Steven Grant Rog-] berating someone, the heat of someone else nearby.

“Hey.” 

It was a quiet voice, not one from his long, long,  _ long _ past. Bucky held onto that, knowing that the person next to him was part of this new life. He was  _ not _ the Asset. He would not be again. 

“Is it okay if I touch you?”

Hawkeye. That’s who the voice belonged to. No, Clint. Clint Barton.

The one he’d met at the range. They’d shot together, and it had been quiet and good. 

Bucky gave a jerky nod, still staring down at his knees. When would this stop? When would he be a normal guy again? Did he even deserve to be normal again?

Clint’s shoulder bumped with his, startling Bucky out of his trip down Self Deprecation Lane. Clint didn’t keep the shoulder contact, leaning away again, but the initial touch was enough that Bucky gave him a startled look.

“I think I recognize that look. Memory Lane is a real fuckin bitch, huh?” There was a lopsided grin there, and Bucky wanted so badly to return it. He just wasn’t sure he knew how.

Bucky gave another curt nod; it wasn’t Clint’s fault that he didn’t understand having someone scramble your brain.

“Y’know, I tried to kill Nat once.” Bucky blinked at him, and Clint continued. “Mhmm, an Asgardian asshole pulled some mind control bullshit on me.”

...Or maybe he did understand. Bucky gave Clint a calculated look before sighing and staring at the opposite wall, not really seeing it but needing somewhere to put his eyes. 

“I don’t deserve all this,” Bucky said, gesturing at the over-decorated hallway, eyes still focused on the nothing in front of him.

“Mmm.” Clint was silent another moment. “Y’know what you don’t deserve? Having your mind fucked with.”

Bucky thunked his head against the wall behind them, turning that thought over. Whether or not he deserved the shit HYDRA had done to him, the Asset had still killed hundreds of people.  _ Bucky _ had killed hundreds, including Tony’s parents. That list had almost included Steve. 

But Bucky didn’t want to have that fight right now, about what he did or didn’t deserve. Clint was just trying to help, and if Steve overheard anything near self-deprecation, the evening would be completely ruined. So Bucky sighed, slowly getting to his feet. He’d bury those thoughts for now, maybe sort them out later, when he was alone in his room. Once he began to stand, Steve’s head whipped around and he stepped closer.

“Buck, you okay? I told Tony the confetti cannons were too much, but  _ apparently _ it was some critical part of his seven part apology to you about the stuff in Siberia-”

Bucky leaned down to grab Clint’s hand, hauling the taller man to his feet and was rewarded with the same lopsided grin.  _ Do I deserve that smile? _

Bucky shook his head, turning to refocus on Steve, still in concerned-hover mode. “You did what you could, Stevie,” Bucky replied, glancing over Steve’s shoulder at Tony. The billionaire looked a cross between abashed and annoyed, ripping crepe paper to shreds as Steve hovered near Bucky. 

“Besides,” Bucky continued. “I think  _ I _ still owe  _ him _ . We good, Stark?”

Tony’s head jerked up at his name, giving Bucky a quizzical glance. After a moment, Tony replied, “yeah, Barnes. If you’re good, I’m good.” There was a pause as Tony shifted to glare at the back of Steve’s head. “As long as that’s fine with  _ Stevie _ .”

Was that...Tony Stark was  _ jealous _ of him. Well that was a fun development. It had only been a month since Steve had convinced Bucky to stay in New York instead of escaping to Wakanda. There had been tension between him and Tony, but Steve interceded almost every time, crowding Tony back until he got interested in something else.

Now that all made a lot more sense; Steve had wanted to keep his best man and his crush under the same roof. Huh.

Bucky cast a more critical eye over Steve, who had stiffened at Tony’s words, glaring back at him, and...yeah, Bucky recognized that glint in Steve’s eye. He was telegraphing a desire to punch Tony, but there was a softness there too. Steve wasn’t hankering for a fight, he was fighting with  _ himself _ about liking Tony. 

To be fair, he  _ was _ Howard’s son, which was a bit weird, but maybe there was more to Tony than met the eye. Besides, Bucky wasn’t exactly going to stand in his best friend’s way. If Tony was who Steve was interested in, they would make it work. 

Leaving wasn’t an option; Steve had made  _ that  _ clear after Siberia, so he’d have to stick it out and make nice with Tony.  _ Steve _ , at least, deserved some happiness in his life. Bucky was never going to be the one to come between them.

Bucky hitched his smile a little higher, playfully knocking into Steve, stepping into an older version of himself, one he barely remembered, who had a Brooklyn accent and never knew what war looked like. A version who might have enjoyed the big to-do for a birthday. “Well thank you, Stark, for the party and all. ‘S there food?”

And just like that, Tony snapped back into the perfect host. The rest of the night passed in a blur. The decorations were too much and Bucky kind of wanted to shoot every balloon he saw, but Tony was trying to make amends, and accepting that would mean Steve got a shot at a relationship in this century. 

So he smiled, and sat between Steve and Clint for food, poorly hidden concern from the former, and jokes and crooked smiles from the latter. It wasn’t a bad night, all told; Tony talking about new upgrades for the suits, Bucky poking fun at Sam’s wings, Natasha, Wanda, and Vision discussing portals, Maria excusing herself to deal with paperwork. 

Bucky could almost tell himself he was enjoying what was happening, almost ignore the heart-pounding flashback from the entryway; regular night terrors were helping to make adrenaline rushes feel like a normal state of being. That was, until the cake came out.

The cake itself was amusing, a giant snowman that required a professional to figure out where the supports ended and the cake began. A sudden chill unfurled in Bucky’s gut as he watched the chef cut into the monstrosity, thinking about putting any of that in his mouth... As the slices were passed around the table, Bucky groped back for the grin he’d been wearing earlier, knowing that his eyes betrayed a wariness that he hoped no one would question.

It was a rowdy enough group that no one expected Bucky to eat first, with Sam and Natasha arguing about the benefits of real fruit in a cake, but Steve kept shooting glances his way. Buckcy sighed, taking the hint and begrudgingly picking up his fork to cut off the smallest piece he could. The eternal chill of the Asset swept into Bucky’s mind as he took that first bite.

The sponge was nice, some floral note in there that he could appreciate, but the icing…

Sticky and sweet and cloying and…

_ Strapped to a chair, immobilized, as something was forced into his mouth. More of that damned cake… _

Another bump to his shoulder brought Bucky back. He blinked into the deep blue eyes of Clint next to him. “Alright?”

Bucky just nodded, pushing the cake away and grabbing for his water. No one said anything about what he’d eaten, or how off-kilter he must look after another fucking flashback. At least this one had been shorter. Steve kept casting him worried glances until Bucky wanted to scream, but he stayed as the rest of them finished eating and moved into the living room. The new mission was to see Stevie happy, so he would grit his teeth and do that. 

He’d never known ‘the end of the line’ would mean this far, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was seeing the glint of humor in Steve’s eye when Tony made a joke, or the soft way he smiled at the billionaire when Tony wasn’t looking. 

Bucky might be fucked, but Steve deserved that happiness. He had the best heart of any of them, and he deserved a shot at love.

✯⑀.⑀.⑀❖⑀.⑀.⑀✯

During that next year, Bucky watched from the outside as Steve and Tony drifted closer and closer, until Steve stopped asking Bucky to be a still life model and Bucky found himself wandering through the other areas of the tower. More and more often, his feet led him to the training floor.

The entire floor was dedicated to training, with gods and super soldiers in mind, so there were separate rooms for the range, a boxing ring and wrestling mats, a weight room, and one entire half of the floor that was separated for an obstacle course and rock climbing wall.

Clint was usually at the range, when he wasn’t lounging on the couches upstairs, so he and Bucky fell into a pattern of shooting against each other near-daily between missions. It had been a nice distraction from the Asset knocking about in the back of Bucky’s mind [Threat Assessment: Clinton Francis Barton, code-name Hawkeye. Potential weaknesses: previous mind con-], but Bucky rapidly found himself being more and more entranced by the arms next to him than the tigger under his finger. 

The archer’s arms were larger than Bucky had originally expected, but then again, Clint spent most of his time in a hoodie when he was just lounging around the Tower. The loose fabric served well to hide the meticulous definition of muscles that flexed and moved as Clint pulled back on the bowstring, aiming carefully...

After the fourth time Bucky hit outside of the bullseye because of the ridiculous eye candy next to him, Bucky decided to cut down his time at the range to once a week. Clint had been so understanding and kind and he  _ joked _ with Bucky, like he was someone worth spending time with. Bucky didn’t want to fuck that up, not with something as pedestrian as  _ ogling _ . 

Plus. He couldn’t afford to let his record for being the world’s best sharpshooter come under scrutiny. Clint would never let him live it down.

He did still dream about what else those arms might get up to, nearly every night.

Across the hall in the boxing ring, Bucky found an excellent sparring partner in Natasha [Ally: Natalia Alianovna Romanova, coden-], and she was usually fast enough that he didn’t need to pull back...much. She favored hand to hand, claiming that it would keep her sharp, and they fell into an easy rhythm quickly, meeting most mornings at 0700. 

It started with just quiet understanding, trading blows in near-silence. One morning, a few weeks after they had started, she came in complaining about a stunt Sam had pulled the night before, revenge for a prank of Steve’s that had ruined her morning coffee. Eventually they started talking about the team, then about fighting forms, about missions, the handlers that came and went…

It was nice. 

Bucky felt like he had finally made a friend, and not just one that he spent his time alternately avoiding and flirting with. He started gravitating towards Natasha when they were stuck attending large gatherings, and if that put him closer to Clint?

It was just so that they could flank Natasha and look imposing, nothing more than that.

Because they were just teammates.

That’s all.

✯⑀.⑀.⑀❖⑀.⑀.⑀✯


	2. The Second Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another year, another birthday, another disastrous run-in with ghosts of the past...

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The second year, Bucky was pretty sure Natasha had been the mastermind behind the army of birthday cupcakes that awaited the team after a Nice Family Dinner. It was actually at the table, which they usually ignored, and she’d even managed to dig out all the proper settings.

By this point, Steve had taken to blushing whenever Tony looked his way, and Tony usually had a mischievous look in his eye whenever they were in the same room. Clint, Sam, and Bucky all found this hilarious and took to teasing them about it, while Natasha and Bruce just looked vaguely annoyed. 

Usually, they ate sprawled out over the living room couches, but Natasha had glared everyone into the dining room tonight, where they had a nice meal. It was low-key, nothing near the flashiness of that first year: no decorations, nothing loud and obnoxious, just a three course meal. 

Bucky appreciated the gesture, he really did, but he found himself retreating from conversation again. The structure of the dinner had awoken something in the back of his mind, a presence he hadn’t noticed was absent until it was suddenly back in full force. [Mission: eliminate targets. Potential allies: Natalia Romanova, Tony Stark. Targets: Steven Rogers, Sam Wilson, Cl-],  _ no _ .

Staring down at the tablecloth, Bucky started counting each individual thread until time stopped holding any meaning. Eventually, the sensation of people bustling meandered into his peripherie, and a gentle voice made it to his ears, asking, “Bucky? You okay?”

Clint. It was Clint. Clint’s hand was what was on his arm, that’s what the pressure sensors in the prosthetic were registering. Bucky forced himself to nod, exhaling as he counted all the forks.

He was fine. This was fine. It was just a team dinner.

The hand didn’t leave his arm, and he was grateful for it as he looked up to see the platters of cupcakes being brought in by Natasha and Steve. Steve was grinning ear to ear, with Natasha quietly smirking by his side as they set the platters down, and carrot cake cupcakes got passed around. One found it’s way onto his plate, and Bucky heard that same voice again, “maybe stop giving the cupcake your murder glare?”

That startled him enough to glance up at Clint. The blue eyes he found there were concerned, but there was a little mischievousness around the edges, and the hand was still on his arm. “I mean, it’s hot and everything, just not conducive to eating.”

That startled a laugh out of Bucky, letting Clint look altogether too pleased with himself. Glancing up, Bucky caught the knowing look on Steve’s face, to which Bucky just rolled his eyes. Even if Clint  _ were _ interested, he deserved better than the tortured husk of a man Bucky’d become. Bucky dropped his gaze back down to his plate, where he couldn’t see anyone’s ideas about him.

He really didn’t want to have to eat this, but he also didn’t want to have to explain not eating it. Natasha and Steve had gone to the trouble of organizing this whole little get together, and picked a treat he remembered from back when the Commandos were rolling through Europe and spent a night in some bakery. So he would try it. Bucky picked up the smallest fork, ignoring the snort of laughter from Clint and the weird looks from Nat and Steve. Scraping off a tiny bite, he lifted it to his mouth...

The icing turned to paste on his tongue.

The cake itself was fine, light in a way that made it feel as though Bucky was eating spongy air with paste, and he could only get down one other bite before it started to taste like the plastic bit they’d given him before the chair. 

Bucky repressed a shiver, closing his eyes and standing as quietly as he could. The conversation dipped, Clint’s hand fell away from his arm, and Bucky glanced up just in time to see Natasha’s expression close off. This face is the one she wore when she was worrying about the stupid stunts Clint pulled, or when Fury sent them on a mission she hated. 

He would deal with that later.

Bucky made a beeline out of the room, taking the stairs up to his floor three at a time and praying no one would follow him. Once he was on familiar ground, Bucky moved automatically towards the bedroom, stripping and going through the motions of getting ready for bed as he carefully blanked out his mind.

When his head hit the pillow, Bucky curled up on his side. He could feel the shaking coming, so close after the adrenaline rush, and he vaguely noted a wetness on the pillow.  _ Must be crying again,  _ he thought absently.

Flipping to his back, Bucky stared up at the ceiling.  _ It was just a team dinner. What kind of freak are you that you can’t even enjoy that? Just how broken  _ are _ you? It’s a wonder they haven’t left you yet. _

He fell asleep with that voice still in the back of his head, tears streaking down his cheeks and into his ears. 

He should be better than this by now.

✯⑀.⑀.⑀❖⑀.⑀.⑀✯


	3. A Series of Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birthday was bad enough...the nightmares might be worse.

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The next day wasn’t much better. When the light came streaming in through the crack in the curtains, it woke Bucky almost immediately, and the dread grew back into the empty pit of his stomach. 

He didn’t deserve to be here. To have Steve back. To have his own fucking floor. To roam through these people’s lives as if he hadn’t shot Natasha, hadn’t killed people, their friends, Tony’s fucking  _ parents _ . As if he wasn’t just some broken thing that could never be put back together again. 

Bucky stayed like that, just staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sun to stop shining directly in his eyes, waiting until he had successfully counted every speck on the ceiling, waiting for something to come and move him, waiting for something worth moving  _ for _ . Waiting, until JARVIS’s voice finally came through the speaker built into his headboard. 

The AI’s tone was soft, but it startled Bucky anyway. Not that he  _ moved _ , Bucky felt as though each inch of skin was welded down, but mentally he jumped at least a foot. “Sergeant Barnes? The captain is asking if you would accept any visitors. What shall I tell him?”

Bucky’s body felt so heavy. Nothing was worth the effort. He could do nothing good anyway. What was the point of getting up? He should’ve hid himself away long ago. Too late now. Now he was just a failure to be kept in the attic.

At least  _ that _ was different from HYDRA. Here, he was a failure instead of a success.

He remembered everything instead of forgetting.

Was success just forgetting all his past failures? 

His thoughts wandered further, Bucky wasn’t sure how long: minutes, hours, days. Finally, the AI prompted him again. “Sir? Shall I send the captain away?”

He should answer.  _ Answer me, Buck. _

_ Report in, Barnes. _

_ Mission report, Asset. _

Bucky’s tongue was sticking to the inside of his mouth, dry and uncomfortable as he muttered “send him away. Send them all away.” His voice was raspier than he remembered...but did that mean he was forgetting again? Forgetting the way it felt to talk regularly? To have those who wanted to listen? Forgetting all the harm that could be done with a few simple words?

Forgetting would be nice....

Bucky sank back into a daydream, or a memory, it was impossible to tell anymore. There was a voice speaking to him, but he tuned it out, lost in another time…

_ “Seeeergeant….. _

_ Sergeant Baaaaaaaaarnes…. _

_ Don’t you want to spend your birthday with us?” _

_ The Asset opened its eyes slowly, brow furrowing.  _ Who was Barnes? Was that relevant to the mission? What was the mission?

_ The Asset’s mouth tried to open, but something was forcing it closed, so it just clenched its jaw. Looking around, the Asset recognized the room they were in. The cement floor with a stain, stone walls, fluorescent lighting that buzzed in the ears… _

Why was this familiar? Was this the only place they had ever known?  _ The voice came again, tauntingly out of sight, as the acidic tang of the room started buzzing at thoughts in the back of the Asset's mind, memories it couldn’t quite reach. _

_ "Come on, Sergeant, I made you a cake and everything…" _

_ There was the sound of a cart being moved, a wheel squeaking, while the same voice gave a dark chuckle that sent a shiver down the Asset's spine.  _ I know that voice. Why do I know that voice? 

_ A figure stepped into view from the right, one hand dragging along the cart that sported a three tiered cake. The cake tilted alarmingly, not quite balanced, threatening to drop goopy white icing off one of its sides. It was too far for the Asset to read the sloppy lettering with its head immobilized, but its attention was drawn back to the man as a hand landed on the Asset’s knee. _

_ "I know you're not going to ignore my hard work. You appreciate what I do for you, don't you?" Another dark chuckle as the Asset strained to recall a name... _ R-? Rum-?

_ The hand slid upwards, and the Asset jerked in the restraints, glaring up at…. _ Rumlow? Was that his name?

_ The presence of emotion must have shown through its eyes, because Rumlow smirked down, brown eyes and stubble much more threatening now. _

No, not threatening. This was the Asset's handler. Rumlow would take care of them. 

_ "Yeah, that's right," came the soothing voice as the Asset looked up into the darkened eyes hanging above him. "You belong to  _ me _." _

_ There was a tiny noise, and it took the Asset a moment to register it had come from its own throat, a garbled needy sound. Rumlow chuckled, reaching up to undo the strap keeping their jaw closed.  _

_ A crackling came to life behind the Asset. “Agent Rumlow, what are y-” _

_ “Are you his handler, Clemmer?” Rumlow’s growl cut off whatever the other voice had to say. “I’ll do with him as I please.” _

_ Rumlow ignored the same voice muttering “copy that,” in favor of finishing freeing the Asset’s head and trailing his hands down the chest in front of him.  _

_ “I’m gonna have fun playing with you, Barnes. Would you like that?” _

_ The Asset just blinked back as Rurmlow turned to the cart he had brought. “I need you to answer me, Barnes.” The icy note of authority sent a shiver down the Asset’s spine. _

_ “I belong to you. You will take care of me.” _

_ A wolfish grin spread across Rumlow’s face at that. “Damn right I will. Now open up…” _

_ The Asset obediently opened its jaw, knowing it couldn’t refuse an order from the Assigned Handler. A fistful of cake was shoved in, vanilla, with a grainy icing that quickly coated the Asset’s entire mouth. It held still, awaiting further orders while tracking Rumlow’s movements.  _

_ Rumlow stepped closer, forcing the Asset’s head back to maintain eye contact. “Well? Swallow for me.” _

_ The Assets throat moved mechanically, saliva glands already in gear from the soggy, cakey icing mixture sitting on its tongue for so long. It went down slowly, half formed yellow cake dissolving as the Asset kept its eyes on Rumlow, watching the satisfaction spread across the Assigned Handler’s face and the pupils that were starting to expand. _

_ Rumlow gave a pleasant hum as his hand traced down the Assets throat, dragging an involuntary shiver out of the Assets spine.  _

_ “Yeah?” Rumlow leaned down again, close enough to the Assets face that the body heat could be felt. “I’m gonna do so much more with your mouth than just that. I’m gonna unstrap you,” and Rumlow was already leaning away, focused on unclasping the Asset’s right wrist. “And when I do, you’re gonna get on your knees, and you’re going to enjoy your birthday gift. Got that?” _

_ The metal appendage had now been freed too, so it was from between the Asset’s legs that Rumlow looked up at it for confirmation.  _

_ “Affirmative.”  _ Mission parameters set: appreciate “gift” and all related physical stimulus,  _ continued the Asset’s mental mission notes. There had been a time that the Asset would have carried on aloud, but they had since trained him in the distinction of what they wanted to hear and what should be merely thought. The Asset behaved more optimally now. _

_ Rumlow continued unbuckling the straps around the Asset’s legs and feet before standing and backing away. Slowly, the Asset stood, taking note of the complaining joints. Usually, the chair was only used pre- and post-mission, and only for short intervals, but occasionally the Asset was brought there to sit for...hours? Days perhaps. Usually that was accompanied by... _ something _ , something that normally got wiped away. _

_ The Asset stretched for a moment before lowering to its knees, making sure its legs were in an arrangement they could hold for a while. The Asset could not recall an event that required kneeling for a handler, but it assumed that it would be staying for a while. _

_ A smirk grew across Rumlow’s features, letting the Asset know that it had done a good job. “Open your mouth, Sergeant.” _

_ The Asset complied, watching as Rumlow hiked up his shirt, undoing his pants and shucking them down to his knees while still meeting the Asset’s eyes. The look on Rumlow’s face kept darkening, but not with anger or fear. Lust? Is that what this was? _

_ The Asset couldn’t see what about this would cause that particular reaction, but it also knew that it wasn’t human. There was no way for it to know how an actual person would react; for the Asset there were only the missions. _

_ The Asset continued to wait patiently as Rumlow shoved down his underwear, allowing his stunningly average dick to bounce free, and reached over to the dripping icing. “Your file says you liked sweets. Apparently one of your old army buddies kept rambling on about how you’d steal his puddings as we removed his fingers.” _

[Was it Dum Dum?]  _ spoke out a panicked voice in the Asset’s mind, but it ignored the intruder. It didn’t matter who Rumlow was talking about; that did not pertain to the mission. Finally, Rumlow took a step forward, pressing a thumb into the Asset’s mouth. That same grainy icing was there, but the Asset didn’t move, just looked back up at the Assigned Handler. _

_ Rumlow smiled again, removing his thumb, grabbing another glob of the icing, and starting to coat his dick in it. “I’m giving you something sweet for your birthday.” Rumlow inhaled deeply as he took a half step closer to the Asset. “I am so looking forward to making a mess of you.” _

_ And with that, Rumlow pushed into the Asset’s mouth. It took the Asset a moment to adjust to breathing exclusively through its nose, making room in his mouth for Rumlow as he started slowly sliding in and out, a hand fisted in the Asset’s hair. Icing coated its teeth, surrounded its tongue, went down its throat.  _

_ The Asset swallowed involuntarily, and Rumlow made a noise from above, something low and guttural. “Do that again.” _

_ The Asset complied. _

_ There was someone else knocking around in the back of its head, some man with swagger, self-assured in his rage against what was happening.  _ [Get the fuck off of me, you mind controlling, sick bastard! This is meant for someone  _ special _ , not for your gross cake fantasies! We don’t have to take this,-]

_ The Asset ignored the voice in favor of paying further attention to what was happening to their body. The parameters were to appreciate what was being done for them, and they would comply. _

_ There was no alternative. _

✯⑀.⑀.⑀❖⑀.⑀.⑀✯


	4. A Surveillance Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When your demons won't let you rest, at least there's always late-night surveillance runs.

✯⑀.⑀.⑀❖⑀.⑀.⑀✯

Bucky started awake, fighting the sheet that had twisted around him until it tore with a noise too large for the empty room.

He sat there panting for a moment, casting furtive glances into the corners to make sure he was alone.

Bucky was in Avengers Tower. Steve was here. He was safe. [Mission parameters: elimi-]  _ No _ , he was James Bucky Buchanan Winter Barnes. His mind was his own, no one touched him that he didn't want to. 

Finding that his breathing was still labored, Bucky got out of bed and stared at the window. 

He could do a quick surveillance run. It wouldn't hurt anyone. Just to make  _ sure _ that HYDRA wasn't there. That Rumlow wasn't there. 

Bucky stayed frozen there for another moment before becoming a flurry of motion in an instant, finding the nearest knife, tac pants, knife, boots, gun, vest, knife, mask, knife…

He began stalking around his floor, taking quick, panicked breaths as he checked and cleared every room with a hand on one of his knives. It was empty, every room only had what little decoration he'd agreed to, some books, sketches Steve had done, a poster of the hierarchy of pizza ingredients Clint had given him…

By the time Bucky had cleared the floor, his chest was heaving, and he only felt mildly reassured. Glancing at the large, bay windows in his living room space, Bucky decided a look outside wouldn’t hurt. He’d be able to see if anyone else was scoping out their tower, if someone was trying to infiltrate through the roof, and he could get some more goddamn air.

Taking a quick detour to his bedroom closet, Bucky grabbed his rifle and headed for the bedroom window. It was smaller than the living rooms, but was nearer to some architecture convenient for scaling the building. He threw a glance upwards, but no, Bucky didn't need permission from JARVIS to do this. He didn’t need permission from  _ anyone _ . He was his  _ own _ Assigned Handler. 

Bucky gripped the window latch and tugged, the circuitry of the electronic lock dying with a small whine. JARVIS called out, "Sir?" 

But Bucky was already out the window.

✯⑀.⑀.⑀❖⑀.⑀.⑀✯

Avengers Tower was, generally, a well built, well secured building. Most targets would find it very difficult to climb, making it optimal for securing the team. However,  the Asset Bucky had a lot of experience scaling buildings that were supposed to be unscalable. The little spines that the metal arm could grow helped with finding purchase on supposedly sheer surfaces.

He’d considered talking to Tony about this and adjusting the outer architecture, but…

Well.

Sometimes it was useful to be able to scale the building.

The roof had changed a few times since aliens had crashed into it, and then some gods, and then just some regular HYDRA assholes from a helicopter, but Pepper had finally gotten a word in edgeways about the roof the last time it was re-done. According to Natasha, she may have started glowing, and threatened Tony’s remaining car collection…

In practicality, what that meant was that the roof now had a perimeter of bushes and small trees, several tables that Steven Grant Rogers [ _ Targe- _ ]  **no** , liked to watch the sunrise at, footlights that were gorgeous decorative tripping hazards, and a large pool that Bucky had mostly avoided up to this point.

Unfortunately, by the time Bucky got to the roof, it was already occupied. 

He’d come up the west side, but there, with legs dangling off the north side and arms hooked around the metal barrier, was  Hawkeye  Clint Barton.

Bucky stared. 

Clint was not a threat. Clint was  _ dangerous _ , but he was not  Rumlow HYDRA. He was part of the team. 

Why was he on the roof?

Some amount of noise got lodged in Bucky’s throat, but a surprised grunt still escaped, causing Clint to twist around and catch his eye. They stared at each other for a tense moment; Clint looked just as sleep-deprived as Bucky felt, but Clint’s alert panic faded and he turned back to stare out at the city.

Bucky decided to take this as his cue to walk the perimeter of the roof.

After the first circuit, checking the bushes for any hidden assassins and casting a wary eye over the pool, Bucky could feel his heart rate lower a little.

By lap two, all the surrounding buildings had been glared into submission, and his respiratory rate was also behaving more optimally.

Lap three was when his eyes began to protest being awake. 

Lap four and his legs started to agree with his eyes. Bucky took another sidelong glance at Clint’s back at the end of lap five; the other man had made no move to follow Bucky’s movements, content to stare out over the city. That seemed more peaceful than going back down to his own empty quarters and dealing with the sheet he’d ripped, with the sleep sweats that lingered on his bed, with the tossed pillows reminiscent of a fight.

Bucky sat down a few feet from Clint without looking at him, mirroring the archer’s dangling legs and head propped up on the metal railing. The view from up here was spectacular, and they sat there for a while, cold and silent, lost in their own minds.

At some point, Clint moved, but Bucky just felt detached, floating over the snow-dampened lights of the city. Shortly afterward, something warm dropped over his shoulders. Bucky jumped, dislodging the warm cloth as he pulled a knife, staring wildly.

Clint was there, already three feet away, hands raised. “Sorry. You...you were shivering, so I gave you my jacket.” Clint gestured down behind Bucky, and there was the heavy black jacket Clint had been wearing. “Sorry, should’ve asked first.”

Huh. He  _ was  _ shivering. Bucky reached down, pulling the jacket back on and sheathing the knife again. Stupid to come out with just the vest on, but he hadn’t exactly been thinking rationally. “Thank you,” Bucky managed, staring at Clint’s boots. They were nice, sturdy leather, good for keeping the cold out. Good for missions.

“Yeah, no problem.” The boots moved back over to the ledge, and Clint sat down with his back against the railing. “I probably shouldn’t stay up here too much longer anyway. Just...the nightmares, you know?”

Bucky shifted his gaze up to Clint’s face and recognized that painful stare, the one that didn’t want to remember what had happened but kept being forced to. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

They sat like that for another few minutes, and Bucky wondered how similar Clint’s nightmares were to his own. Sam mentioned that talking about nightmares might help. Sam meant him to see a therapist, but Clint seemed easier to talk to. Easier to crack open in front of. Easier to ask to put himself down if he needed it.

Would Clint even want to talk about it? To talk to  _ him _ , especially after last night?

Before Bucky could actually voice the questions reeling in his mind, Clint was standing. “You can just leave the jacket outside my door when you’re done, if you want.” 

Bucky thought about it for a moment as Clint bent down to grab something, but decided against it. The cold and loneliness would not be good for returning to normal; they just served as a reminder of where he came from, not this new place he was trying to fit into. He got up, taking the jacket off to hand back to Clint. “It would be good if I went indoors too. Thank you, for…”

The words died in his throat.

Clint was reaching out with one hand to take the jacket back, but the other hand…

He was licking something off his finger, holding a cupcake wrapper.

Licking.

Icing.

Off.

His.

Finger.

Bucky ran. He was so busy blocking out images that wouldn’t stay gone that he ended up on the 15th floor wandering through a maze of offices before any security found him. The forced discipline, the rigid structure of the organized space helped calm his brain, provided a pattern he could follow so that he could actually  _ hear _ the security agent’s words when they came.

“Mr. Barnes, I’m sorry, but I’m going to need to ask you to leave. This floor is off-limits below Classification 4 Personnel.” The security guard’s voice was firm, but non-threatening. Polite. She was polite.

She did  _ not _ have cake. Or icing. That was good.

Wells, he remembered. Her name was Agent Wells

Bucky nodded at Agent Wells and headed back to the stairwell door that, huh, had a broken handle now. Interesting.

He returned to his rooms after that, taking the stairs all the way up. Once the door closed behind him, JARVIS quietly said, “it is good to have you back, Sergeant Barnes. I’m glad Mr. Barton was able to assist you.”

Bucky glared up at the ceiling. “Did you send him to make sure I was okay?”

There was a brief pause, and then, “you were carrying six knives and a handgun. And a rifle. I thought backup might be called for.”

After a moment, Bucky huffed out, “you might have a point.” He sighed, and stared into his fridge. He grabbed a leftover container of chicken masala and tossed it into the microwave.

“Would you like me to put on a movie, Sergeant Barnes?” 

Was JARVIS trying to apologize?

It would maybe work.

“Sure, JARVIS. Thanks. Something funny?”

“Of course.”

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There had been a couple of wrapped gifts waiting by his door when he finally walked by the elevator entrance to his rooms later the next day. On the very top was a framed painting, clearly Steve’s work, that showed him and Steve in profile, looking out over the eastern side of Central Park. Most weeks they took walks there together, and Stevie had managed to perfectly replicate the serenity and peacefulness of those mornings, the absolute silence as the first pinks and yellows of dawn hit their faces. A small smile crept its way onto Bucky’s face as he set it aside, already thinking about where he might hang it.

Underneath was a box nearly as tall as the kitchen counters, the largest of the lot. The tag read  _ To: Our Friendly Neighborhood Terminator. _ Bucky snorted, shaking his head at Tony’s joke. They had actually watched the Terminator movies a few months ago, part of the program to “Re-educate The Grandparents,” as Tony had put it. Bucky had actually enjoyed it, though he had grumbled about the sci fi of their time being far superior. 

Lifting the lid on the enormous box, Bucky looked down to find a massive stuffed bear in a miniature tac vest. The left arm, instead of furred, was silvery with a red star on it. 

It was actually kind of cute, though Bucky would never admit that to Tony.

Next to the giant box, there was a clear container with a sticky note on top. The note was clearly in Bruce’s handwriting, stating that if Bucky didn’t like the cookies, he could give them back and Bruce wouldn’t mind. Lifting the box up, Bucky peered inside and grinned when he recognized the homemade matcha green tea cookies Bruce had made once before. They were the perfect mix of sweet and bitter, and Bucky immediately popped the container open to eat one. He definitely would  _ not _ be giving them back, but the offer was a nice gesture.

Beneath the cookies were two novels, tied loosely together with a strand of curled ribbon. Bucky was only momentarily confused until he read the titles:  _ Anna Karenina  _ and  _ Feed _ . Natasha had been pestering him to read  _ Anna Karenina _ for a year and a half now, claiming that he needed to “read the first true novel,” and that he was doing a disservice to himself by having not read it already. He chuckled, setting it aside. 

The cover on  _ Feed _ promised a sci-fi novel detailing the dangers of shoving technology into one’s brain. Bucky shook his head and tossed them both onto the nearby countertop. Natasha wasn’t one to pull her punches, but Bucky kind of appreciated that. Even if it was obnoxious.

Tucked to the side, hidden behind the other gifts, sat an unobtrusive black box. There was no tag, but there were two small concentric circles painted in purple on one corner of the box. Bucky smiled, tracing over what he was sure was Clint’s handiwork. There was a spark of conflict, the memory of the adrenaline last night as he had to  _ run- _

But. 

The box was here. Clearly meant for him. It was  _ his _ now, as far as Bucky was concerned. 

Nestled inside lay three knives; one green with a smiling octopus, one blue with fluffy white clouds, and one yellow with a smiling cartoon dog. Strange. Bucky  _ liked _ them, the contrast of brightly colored cartoons with deadly weaponry, and he tucked them away with the other knives he regularly brought to the range.

Maria, Sam, and Clint had separately left cards, all sitting up on the kitchen counter near his plums. As soon as Bucky opened the one from Sam, he dropped it, fortunately cutting off the tinny rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ that had started singing at him. Bucky glared down at the card, at the red tasteful script that belied the obnoxious noise within. Retaliation was required. But not today.

Once the gifts had been appropriately homed [with the singing card at the bottom of a drawer, to use the next time Sam had a birthday], Bucky flopped back onto his bed. 

Last night had been exhausting. Opening presents had been exhausting. But it was nice to know that there were people here who cared enough about him to make that effort. 

Maybe...maybe he was worth some of that effort.

✯⑀.⑀.⑀❖⑀.⑀.⑀✯

A few days [and several nightmare-ridden nights] later, Bucky found himself staring at his knife stash again. The fluffy cloud one was serrated. The dog one was slightly misshapen to make room for the second floppy ear, and the urge to find out just how aerodynamic it was kept niggling at Bucky.

He sighed.

Realistically, he had enough books to keep himself busy for at least two months, not including the wide store of audiobooks JARVIS had provided him access to. But Bucky  _ knew _ , remembered deep in his bones from after Howlie missions, that nothing helped regain the feeling of control quite like putting a knife exactly where you meant to. Preferably from about 50 feet away. 

This was how Bucky found himself down at the range, approximately ten minutes later, hucking his beautiful new knives into a target 65 feet down the range. The methodic  _ thump _ they made was nice. The repetitive motion was soothing. Something about it let his brain turn off, just focused on the throwing, and the walking forward to dig his knives back out. The targets were mechanized, Bucky could press a button and have them zoom closer, but there was something calming, too, about walking that length and pulling the knives back out of the rips in the target paper.

Bucky’d lost count of how many times he’d thrown, his right shoulder just starting to feel the strain of the repetitive motion, when there was the sound of a scuffing boot behind him. Bucky jumped, hand reaching for his now-empty sheath before realizing he’d just thrown his last knife. He settled for glaring the intruder down. It took Bucky a moment to recognize him through the sudden burst of adrenaline, but the blond hair, the oversized shirt…

It was Clint.

Bucky wasn’t sure if he was glad or not that he hadn’t impaled the archer on instinct, so he just turned his back and strode down to his target, using altogether too much force to remove the knives. Bucky tried to ignore the sounds of the weapons cabinet being unlocked behind him, of Clint setting up on another lane, the sigh that must be disappointment at having to see Bucky.

Bucky’d run from him. Clint wasn’t...Clint had been trying to  _ help _ , and Bucky had just run like a fucking madman, broken a door, and hid in his room. The panic flooding his mind kept flipping between the fear that Rumlow’s presence had elicited, and the sad puppy look that Steve got whenever Bucky regressed too far. He needed to not hurt Clint, to not hurt the rest of the  _ team _ . 

He was just too fucked in the head to be dealt with. It would be safer if he could just leave, but Steve would drop any hope of whatever might be happening with Tony and go chasing him around the world. 

Augh.

He stalked back down the lane he’d been using, carefully avoiding any eye contact as he quietly stacked the knives back into the box he’d brought down. When Bucky turned to head for the door, he instead came face-to-chest with one in-the-way archer.

A growl escaped, but Clint just laughed as Bucky glared up at him. “Sorry, that murder glare is just really attractive.”

Shaking his head, Bucky moved to step around Clint, but Clint just followed him, like a huge, annoying, attractive puppy. 

Augh.

“I just wanted to say,” Clint started in a sincere enough tone that Bucky actually paused to make eye contact. “I’m sorry about the other night. I had some nightmares, so I was already up when JARVIS asked for someone to sit with you. I...I don’t know what I did or said that made things worse, but I’m sorry. If it helps, you won’t ever have to see me around again.” There was something like...worry? Nervousness? Clint was trying to hide it, but there was sorrow in his eyes as he stepped back sheepishly, making room for Bucky to leave if he wanted to.

Well shit.

Separate from the bewilderment that replaced the panic in Bucky’s mind, Bucky’s hand seemed to have caught hold of the front of Clint’s shirt without his brain’s permission. Clint was looking back at him with enough confusion to match his own, and Bucky took a deep breath.  _ Well. No sense letting him blame himself for everything _ . 

“It wasn’t you.” Bucky might have been boring a hole through Clint’s shoulder, but it was easier to talk that way. Easier to avoid the judgement. “I...Sitting next to you was nice. I just…” Bucky felt like he was lost, like he was drowning, but this was Clint. He’d probably understand. Probably.

Bucky took another deep breath, glad that Clint hadn’t said anything, but feeling the oppressive weight of the silence that had stretched between his own words. “It was the icing. I couldn’t...It wasn’t you, okay Clint?” He needed to drag his eyes up to meet Clint’s at that, to make sure Clint understood, because apparently Bucky’s words were completely failing him at that moment.  _ Please don’t disappear,  _ he didn’t say. 

Fortunately, Clint seemed to have taken some classes at the Natasha Romanoff School of Reading Minds because he just nodded, face quieting down as he gestured with one arm at the range. “I’ll...I’m gonna shoot for a while, if you wanted to stay?”

_ Well, shit. _ Bucky  _ did _ kind of want to keep throwing for a while, and being around Clint might actually help. Maybe they could get back to that quiet understanding they’d shared on the roof. Maybe work back up to the banter that accompanied shooting. Maybe he could be allowed to get distracted by some spectacular biceps again. Not right now, but maybe soon.

He nodded a little jerkily, and was rewarded by the small smile developing on Clint’s face. “Alright,” Clint said, “just let me know how far away you want me, yeah? And no worries if you need to leave at any point.”

That was….that was so much kindness, Bucky wasn’t sure what to do with it all. He certainly didn’t  _ deserve  _ it, but he was a selfish bastard, so he’d take it anyway. “Thanks,” he croaked out, before indicating the firing lane one away from his own. “Just not right next to me.”

Clint nodded at that, waited for Bucky to release his grip on Clint’s shirt, then turned to grab his quiver and get set up on the lane Bucky had indicated. They passed the next half hour pleasantly, quietly going about their routines, but without the tension that Bucky had been so afraid of. 

Maybe they were okay. That would be nice.

When Bucky finally listened to his aching muscles and turned to go back up to his rooms, Clint caught him, this time with a gentle hand on the shoulder. “I’m here pretty much every day at around noon. If you want company.”

That actually sounded...pretty nice. And it gave him a regular time for human interaction, if he wanted it. If he was up to it. If he was selfish enough to take it on any given day.

Bucky looked back at Clint and smiled, the gesture feeling clumsy in the light of the kindness Clint was showing him. “That sounds good. Thanks.”

✯⑀.⑀.⑀❖⑀.⑀.⑀✯

Bucky had stopped going to movie nights for a month after that terrible birthday, avoiding the common area completely until, midway through April, Steve showed up on his floor. 

“Listen, I know that your birthday didn’t go as planned, but you’ve literally only left your room in the past  _ month _ to shoot at the range with Clint. Stop moping or I’m going to have Sam recommend a therapist for you.”

Bucky glared back into the Stern Captain America face that was usually reserved for belligerent reporters and carving a path through paperwork when one of the team was hurt. The look had evolved since they were kids, becoming more stern, more sure of his power. Back when they were in the Commandos, Steve had confessed that he just imitated what Bucky had done when he’d frightened the bullies off Steve back home. That had been funny then, but now…

Now it just seemed so far away, Bucky wasn’t sure how to get back there. 

But giving into Steve’s stubbornness was familiar. That was a start.

Bucky sighed, staring at a spot on Steve’s shoulder. “Fine. Want me to come kick your ass at Mario Kart now or later?”

It was the most tolerable thing Bucky could think of doing; at least it would keep his mind off his own ineptitude, the flashbacks, his panicked patrols. Fortunately, it also shook a chuckle out of Steve. “Now is good.” 

Bucky just nodded at that, and started towards the elevator. Steve fell into step next to him, commenting “should probably go to therapy anyway, Buck.” His voice gentled, and it broke something inside Bucky to hear that softness. “It could help some.”

Shaking his head, Bucky pushed the call button for the elevator. “Maybe someday.”  _ Don’t know if I’m worth it _ , he didn’t say. Sam had mentioned the possibility a few months earlier, but Bucky hadn’t given it much thought. Maybe someday, though. Maybe.

✯⑀.⑀.⑀❖⑀.⑀.⑀✯


	5. The Third Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third year brings with it something a little....unexpected.
> 
> **Kisses Bingo: Cheek to Cheek**

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By the third year, no one mentioned his birthday, and he had even managed to have four whole sessions with a therapist. It was nearly March with not a single odd look from Steve _or_ Natasha. Their sparring sessions hadn’t stopped, despite the odd tension the few weeks after his birthday last time. Bucky assumed he was finally in the clear, so when he woke up on March 10th, 2019, he smiled ruefully up at the ceiling, glad to have the day pass unmarked.

After throwing on a pair of pajama pants, he padded downstairs to the communal floor, gratified to see someone had already set the coffee to brew. Bucky blindly grabbed a mug from the cabinet, still looking around the kitchen to see if anyone was lurking about. Finding no evidence of life, he shuffled blearily to the coffee pot just as the light switched off and the noises of brewing quieted.

Once coffee was acquired, Bucky wandered into the living room. It was positively massive, with two sectional couches on risers so everyone could see the television. When Bucky first moved in here it felt too big, too much, and Steve had just nodded his understanding and taken him to the weights room instead.

But after a little over three years of movie nights, of playing Mario Kart and horsing around, the good memories finally won out over fear enough that he didn’t even flinch at being in such an open space anymore. He sighed with contentment as he flopped onto one of the couches, looking out the massive windows at the skyline.

The city was huge and sprawling, and it really was a beautiful sight, even if it wouldn’t ever be the same as a view from Brooklyn. Glancing down, Bucky noticed that he had accidentally grabbed Clint’s favorite mug, purple with a large H, at the same moment that he heard the archer from behind him moan out, “aww, mug, nooo…”

Bucky just grinned, taking a sip. It may not have been intentional _this_ time, but they teased each other often enough that he could pass it off as his idea. Plus, Clint was cute when he got all flustered. 

Not that Bucky had been looking.

A few clatters later, and Clint wandered into the room, not looking around before he plopped onto the floor, leaning up against the couch just to the side of Bucky.

“Someone stole my mug,” Clint grumbled, and Bucky wondered at how someone who was so much of a disaster could be so adorable. 

“Mmm?” Bucky took another sip from the offending mug, content to wait until Clint was awake enough to notice just where his mug had ended up. 

Clint sighed into his coffee cup, one of Steve’s with a sketchily drawn labrador on it. “I washed it specifically last night...had to steal one of Steve’s.”

Bucky just hummed again, and they both sat there, staring out the windows for a while longer, sipping on their coffee and watching the day break open over the city. Eventually, Clint staggered back to his feet, reaching down for Bucky’s mug. “Refill?”

Swallowing his smile down, Bucky just nodded, watching as the other man disappeared around a corner. After a moment, there was a “hey!” and Bucky couldn’t keep from snickering. Stomping back in, Clint clutched the mug in question to his chest. “You stole it!! And after I went and tried to _bake_ for you too.”

Bucky just blinked at him. “You bake?”

“No, but….shit. That was supposed to be a surprise. Dammit.” Clint sighed, leaning against the wall dividing the kitchen from the living room. “I...Well, I can’t bake for shit. But. You never ate the cakes, and I talked to Steve about it, so I...Well, I maybe tried to bake you a pie.” The last bit came out all in one mumbly rush, and it took a moment to parse through the words.

Bucky could feel a frown forming as he replied. “You baked me a pie? For...my birthday?”

Clint nodded, a blush creeping onto his ears as he stared down at the mug he was holding. “Well. I _tried_ to bake you a pie anyway. After about the fifth one, I gave up. Didn’t want to poison you or nuthin’...”

Still dumbstruck at _Clint_ going out of his way to try to bake for him, Bucky continued his silent staring for long enough that Clint shuffled back into the kitchen. _Well this is new._

Bucky took a deep breath, mulling over what this might mean. Clint wanted to bake for him. To keep trying to find the right way to say happy birthday, even after Bucky had reacted so poorly. The cynical part of him wanted to think that they were just good friends, that Clint was just trying to make his welcome felt, but…

But he was actively trying to do something Bucky would enjoy, instead of just backing off in confusion like the rest had. Like Steve had. Bucky didn’t blame Steve for it at all, but they had both changed in the last 70 years. Steve had actually started to build a life for himself here, and Bucky was so busy trying to unlearn the garbage HYDRA had stuck in his mind, trying to work around the stupid brainwashing and the metal freaking arm and the resurfacing memories, that he hadn’t had the time or space to give Steve that reassurance that he’d needed but would never ask for. They were still, they would _always_ be, best friends, ‘til the end of the line. 

But Clint was here, trying to bake for him. Carefully not pushing too hard, giving Bucky his space. It’s not like he hadn’t thought about it before; going steady with Clint, being able to share physical space, having a better excuse than the fucking range for being around each other all the time. Not having clandestine meetings on the rooftop after the nightmares, just being able to wake up next to someone who understood. 

It’s not like Clint was perfect; he could be a bit of an asshole sometimes, but Bucky could too. Clint was kind of like Steve that way, the perfect blend of getting-on-your-nerves, but lovable anyway. A little bit of recklessness when it came to the fighting, but Clint seemed to actually know some of his own limits, as opposed to Captain Chip On His Shoulder. Plus it was...it was nice, to be around someone who wasn’t constantly blaming themselves for not single-handedly extinguishing HYDRA from the face of the earth. 

Someone who actually wanted to just be fucking normal sometimes.

That was disturbingly difficult to find in the Tower of supers; lately Bucky had taken to thinking that he, Clint, and Bruce were the only sensible ones living there. But even Bruce didn’t _really_ want to stop tinkering with his old gamma research and whatever new challenge came along, however much he claimed to want a quiet life. He’d let Nat bring him onto the team, after all. 

Clint did eventually come back to the living room, focusing Bucky back on the here and now, handing over the freshly-steaming purple mug. Bucky smiled up at Clint, and was glad to see the earlier blush was still lingering around Clint’s neck. 

As Clint shuffled to take a step back, Bucky moved without thinking, grasping Clint’s free wrist loosely. Clint looked down, surprised, and Bucky smiled up at him, hiding his nerves. “Sit down?”

Clint gave him a weird look at that, but sat anyway, far enough that they were only touching where Bucky was still holding on. He let go, and Clint just stared down into his own mug until Bucky worked up the courage to say more.

“So, uh. You. Made me a pie?” Bucky winced a little at the hesitation in his own voice, but Clint didn’t respond to the tone, just the words.

“Well, yeah. And I was going to try to sneak out to get you a store bought one, but,” and Clint was frankly adorable with one hand trying to rub the embarrassed flush off the back of his neck, “not really any point now that you know.”

Bucky had to laugh at that; Clint was trying so hard to make him comfortable, to do something nice for him even through all the triggers and nightmares. It sparked something warm and bubbly inside of Bucky, something he hadn’t been sure was even there anymore after all he’d been through. 

“Sorry,” he started, catching the confused look on Clint’s face, “it’s just that. You’re trying so hard. Thank you.” Bucky could feel a smile growing on his lips, a genuine one, large enough that it felt strange on his face. 

Clint cocked his head and took a long drink from his mug before responding, “you’re...welcome? I just.” Clint looked back down into his mug, as though the coffee had all the answers. Who knew, maybe it did. “You’ve had a shit run of things,” Clint continued, “and I know what that’s like, better than most. And...you know, you’re. Fun to hang out with. Kind of an asshole sometimes, but so am I.”

This time when Bucky started to chuckle, Clint lifted his head and joined in too. They stayed like that for a moment after the laughter died away, eyes locked in a moment so soft and safe that the words just tumbled out of Bucky’s mouth without permission. “D’you want to go get food together?”

Clint blinked.

Bucky’s brain stuttered, but his mouth kept moving, trying for smooth but ending up somewhere closer to overly sincere. “We could go for pizza; it’s still kind of pie, and as an added bonus, you could continue to be wrong in your assessment of pineapple as an acceptable pizza topping.”

That startled a laugh out of Clint, and Bucky took a shaky breath, letting a flirtatious smile slide onto his face. If this was rejection, he could take it, had done that plenty back in the 30’s, but there was a glimmer of hope there. The inkling that Clint didn’t just bake for anyone, the desire for something more between them. Their banter, the jokes, always warm and comforting, but nudging at more heated with every flirty joke, with every glance at the other’s lips.

Speaking of....Clint was licking his lips, the edges curving into a beautiful mischievous smile, and Bucky had to blink before he was looking back into those piercing blue eyes.

Clint’s smile grew as he held Bucky’s eyes, before responding, “yeah. It’s a date.”

They both laughed a little before gingerly relaxing back onto the couch, staring out the same window, sipping too-hot coffee. That second cup passed quietly, with an unspoken understanding threaded with the excited thrum of realizing _oh, he likes me too_.

By the time Bucky finished that cup, Clint had closed his eyes and was presumably dozing. The illusion was broken when Bucky moved to carefully stand up and the blue eyes flickered open and all 6’1” of the archer was suddenly in his arms. 

Bucky let out a noise of surprise, tension rippling through him as the plates in his arm shifted. Clint’s arms were gently looped around him, loose enough that he could break away if he wanted to.

“Thank you,” Clint whispered into his hair, not moving except to speak. “Thank you for asking me.”

The knot of anxiety at the sudden movement melted a little, a warming happiness growing in its place, a little ball of joy that unfurled until Bucky felt more grounded, able to enjoy Clint’s cheek against his own. He squeezed, smiling at the happy noise Clint made in response. 

“Yeah,” he replied, the sound more gruff than he intended. “Just...maybe telegraph your movements before you hug me next time?” This wasn’t exactly Bucky’s first hug since coming onto the team, he’d come to appreciate the casual touches that had developed over the past few years, but the sudden movement and closeness had sparked a frightened part of Bucky’s mind that he didn’t want to associate with the simple joy of a hug.

“Oh, shit, right, I’m-” but as Clint tried to babble an apology and started to pull away, Bucky held him close, cutting him off.

“It’s alright. Just something to keep in mind, okay?”

He could feel the stiffness in Clint’s body, could feel as it tentatively relaxed back into their hug. “Okay,” Clint said, and they stayed there for a few moments. The closeness felt good, almost comforting, but Bucky could feel the anxiousness prickling at the back of his mind. It got closer, the buzzing louder by fractions, until he had to pull away. 

Bucky flashed a smile up at Clint, who was blinking down at him with a sleep-soft grin of his own. “Meet you at 2 in the lobby.”

The words washed over Clint’s face, leaving behind an electric excitement that Bucky found himself laughing at. “Okay, yes,” Clint replied, cheeks flushing again as he tousled his own hair. “Yes! Sorry, Buck, I have to go get ready for a date.” 

Bucky laughed again at that, watching Clint scramble out of the room, treasuring the joyous glance Clint threw over his shoulder before disappearing into the elevator. The warm curl in his chest continued outwards, and Bucky let the sheer giddiness he felt come bursting out in a gleeful chuckle. 

It was a bright day, and he felt whole. He was Bucky Barnes, and he was going on a _date_.

✯⑀.⑀.⑀❖⑀.⑀.⑀✯

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This hug is brought to you courtesy of [squaddy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher) because they asked nicely :)  
> I hope you enjoyed!


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